A Mad Indulgence
by rainydaysuedes
Summary: Spencer Reid faces the greatest loss of his life while struggling with an enemy we thought was long gone. His grief is raw and the vial of Dilaudid he has kept in his sock drawer for the past six years could make it all go away... Compliant to the events of 8x12, Zugzwang. T for references to drug use.


**Author's Note:** Trigger warning for drug use. I do not own these characters, alas. (If I did they'd both be alive and married and parents to beautiful genius children.)

* * *

**_Now_**

_Where is it? God, where is it?_ Spencer Reid asks himself as he desperately digs through the contents of the top right drawer of his old wooden dresser. It holds his many pairs of mix-matched socks and a few random ties, but he doesn't need any of those. He's looking for something far more important.

The tears blurring his vision and the darkness of the night aren't helping him in his search, but he carries on, regardless. This can't wait. He's done waiting.

A few hours ago he watched a bullet go through Maeve Donovan's head. A few hours ago he broke down into a sobbing heap of guilt on a dirty warehouse floor. A few hours ago JJ and Blake had to pull him to his feet, wrap him in a blanket, and drive him home.

Upon arriving at his apartment he curled up on his couch, held Maeve's book to his chest, and ran his fingers over the words she had written. The same hand that wrote those words would have signed their marriage license, would have spelled out the names on their children's birth certificates.

But it isn't just those things, those important, monumental 'would haves' that bother him. He'll never see her frantically jot down an answer during one of the trivia game nights they planned to have someday. He'll never see her write a grocery list or fill out a deposit slip. Those small instances, he realizes, might just be the most difficult loss to cope with.

It's strange to him that as raw as his emotions are, he feels numb more than anything. He is crying (God, he hasn't stopped crying since it happened) and his hands shake (that make sense, considering the one person that steadied him entirely is gone) and his chest literally aches (the pain could have been psychosomatic, but he isn't so sure).

He is torn up, but at the same time, he feels nothing at all. His mind is racing with what-ifs and memories and future plans that are now impossible, but it's also entirely blank. It all is a contradiction, even his racing heart. Like everything else, it seems unreasonable that, in the event of her death, he could still be alive.

He keeps looking.

* * *

**_Then_**

It was known amongst the members of his team (in the eyes cast down, words mumbled under breath whilst handing over papers, silence as soon as he entered the room kind of way) that Dr. Spencer Reid had once been addicted to Dilaudid. It was a sticky subject, very private, shameful, and emotionally charged, and it took a while before any of them spoke to him directly about it. But they knew, and he knew they knew.

He also knew there was one thing that they didn't know, one thing no one else in the world knew except for him. It was one of the many skeletons in his closet, and though there were several contenders, he thought it was the worst.

He'd never used what was in the vial that he had taken off Tobias Hankel's body.

When they returned home from Georgia he'd found out just how easy it was to access the narcotic locally. He obtained his supply in many different ways— both legal and illegal. In any case, he wasn't so desperate that he had to utilize the small amount he'd pulled out of the corpse's pocket.

So he kept it. He'd hidden it at the back of his sock drawer and he left it there, untouched. Even after years of sobriety, he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it. He wasn't sure if he left it there to prove his strength, or to have it available, just in case. A few times he thought he came close to finding out.

The only thing he knew with absolute certainty is that he would never, ever share this with anyone. He didn't think that'd be too hard. After all, he kept it from his team for years, and would continue to keep it from them. It wasn't even a challenge anymore. Most of the time he barely even thought about it.

And who else besides his family could make him exhume his darkest secret?

* * *

**_Now_**

When his fingers close around the vial he is both relieved and terrified. He stumbles backward onto his bed. It's been so long since he's seen it, but he remembers exactly how the drug made him feel. How it still could make him feel.

It's a weightless state, painless and floating. A million miles away. Numb.

But it's a different kind of numb than what he feels now— that numb is still jagged somehow, still sharp and stabbing and bloody. The Dilaudid numb is blissful and soft, cushioned and cradling.

Minutes before, when he pried the book out of his own fingers and dragged himself off the couch to stagger to the bedroom, he was motivated by one thing: that little glass vial. With a shaky breath he uncaps the lid.

He knows what he has to do.

* * *

**_Then_**

The closest he came to using again was after a particularly disturbing case in 2012. The ones that involved children were always the worst, and he couldn't shake the absence of light in the eyes of the one kid they'd been able to save. He saw a lot of haunting things, but sometimes he was affected more than others. There was no reason behind it.

On their way home, all he could think about was the vial in the drawer. He avoided talking to the others, excusing his actions as migraine related (though that truthfully was part of it) and pretended to sleep. But in his mind he pictured himself injecting the drug into the vein in his left arm over and over again. He couldn't help it.

He made a plan. He'd go home, see if it was still safe to take, and, if so, he'd shoot up once. Just once, he swore to himself, to get that cold, dead look of the child's eyes out of his mind. Just to escape it all for the night. Tomorrow morning the Dilaudid's effects would wear off, and he'd resume life as usual. No harm done.

At least, that's what he told himself.

When the headaches were at their worst, he often theorized that the drug would help ease the pain more efficiently than any other form of treatment he'd tried. He'd never actually tested that hypothesis, but there was a first time for everything, he supposed.

Walking into his apartment building he felt guilty. He knew he shouldn't be doing what he was about to do, but he was going to do it anyway. Pre-meditated.

He reached the foot of the stairs, and someone was walking down toward him.

"Oh, Dr. Reid!" It was Mrs. Cavanaugh in her purple robe.

"Yes?" He forced a friendly tone. His fingers tapped the railing impatiently.

"I saw the postal man bring some mail for you earlier. I figured you'd want to check it before going in for the night," she said, smiling.

He nodded. "Thanks."

Backtracking to the postal slots, he dug for his key in his satchel. His head throbbed and he just wanted to get this over with so he could return to his apartment and… feel better.

The electricity bill, an ad for a store he'd shopped at maybe once, and a letter.

Not just any letter. It was addressed to Dr. Joseph Bell, and though he didn't know it then, it was only the first of many. He opened it quickly, but was careful not to tear the envelope. He sat down on one of the sofas in the lobby, and read the words (which were written out long hand in neat, loopy lettering).

She introduced herself as Rosalind Franklin, which made him laugh, considering her profession. She had a few ideas regarding his headaches, and asked if she'd be able to look at MRI scans of his brain. She was smart and funny and sincere, but the letter was professional above all else. Near the end she politely requested that he not self-medicate. She thought this would only add to his problems.

He was a man of science, and while he believed in another side existing after life, he wasn't sure he could buy into the idea of fate and destiny. But, somehow, this letter had come on the right day and he'd opened it at the right time and she'd said all the right things.

When he got to his apartment he changed into his pajamas, nested himself among all the book and blankets on his couch, and read the letter over and over. Each time it filled him with more and more hope, until the eyes of the child, his headache, and the vial in his sock drawer were long forgotten.

* * *

**_Now_**

He's momentarily blinded by the overhead light in the bathroom when he flicks the switch on. Has it always been this bright?

The mirror shows him a ghostly man with tearstained cheeks and bags under his eyes that are even more prominent than usual. His hair is a mess and his eyes are dark. He wonders for a moment if she was surprised by what he looked like, or if it even mattered to her at all. Part of him knows that she didn't care.

His heart pounds, just thinking about her, reminding himself that her first impression of him was also her last. God, it's just so thoroughly _unfair_ that he wants to punch everything and yell and cry until he no longer can. He'll get to that later, but right now there's something he can't put off any longer.

Hands trembling, he lifts the vial of Dilaudid over the sink. For six years he has kept the little glass container in the top right drawer of his dresser, letting it taunt and torture him. His greatest temptation reminding him of his greatest shortcoming.

In a quick motion he turns it upside down. He watches as the last bit runs down the drain, then sets the empty vial on the counter. He lets out a sigh that could disguise itself appropriately as relief, but he knows it's something else. He slumps to the floor, leans back against the cabinet. Tears run down his face, but he's not just crying for Maeve.

Soon he'll return to his couch and hold her book to him once again. He'll sob until his throat feels like it's on fire and even long after that. He'll go over every word they ever shared, every letter and phone call and book read in tandem. He might even pray to a god he doesn't believe in, begging for it all to be a terrible nightmare, with the hope that he'll wake up tomorrow and his life will be endurable again. But until then, he remembers a cold Sunday afternoon.

Not long ago he made a promise. A promise that, because of recent events, he can no longer keep. This is the best he can do now.

He hopes it's enough.

* * *

**_Then_**

"I don't know why I told you that," he said. Payphone pressed to his ear, the chilly December wind nipping at his skin, he felt sick. He knew he had an issue with oversharing, but he never thought those words would come out of his mouth, especially not in a situation like this.

"Spencer." Maeve's voice was soft, far from the repulsed, angry tone he was expecting. "Spencer, it's okay."

"It's not okay," he said. "I've been lying to my team."

"It's a psychological issue," she argued. "You told me all about what you went through. It represents your struggle and subsequent victory. It's hard for you to let of it, even now. They'd understand."

He shook his head, though she couldn't see. "I can never tell them. I can't."

"But you can tell me?" The emotion in her voice was unfamiliar. Now more than ever he wished he could speak to her face to face, read her body language, fit the pieces together.

"Yes, because you're…" He searched for the correct word. "Different."

She laughed. She always surprised him. "Different?"

"You're the only person I've ever told." _You're the only person I've trusted enough to tell. You're the only person I've wanted to be entirely honest with in my life. You're the only person I love enough—_

"Oh. Well…you don't have to tell them," she said carefully. He knew she was treading on thin ice.

"You just said—"

"I want what's best for you, Spencer. If that means we keep this between us, then so be it." She paused. "But I would feel much better if you disposed of it."

"I want to do that more than anything, Maeve, but I don't think I can." A couple walked past him on the sidewalk, holding hands. He suppressed his envy.

"Maybe not alone," she said. Her voice was thoughtful, hopeful. "I think we'll be able to meet very soon, Spence. I can help you."

His heart swelled with love for her. "You'd do that?"

"Of course. Just promise me you'll leave it alone until then, okay?"

"I promise." He had a lot to look forward to. Somehow it all made sense to him that Maeve Donovan, the one great love of his life, would aid in setting him free.

"You're going to be fine," she said. "No, that's not true. You _are_ fine. You're going to be better."

He appreciated her optimism, but he began to worry. "You know, I get weirdly emotional about stuff. If I cry or freak out when the time comes, you shouldn't be too alarmed."

"Spencer, don't be ashamed of what you feel," she said, almost sternly. Then, in a much lighter tone, she added, "This is coming from the guy who cried when he watched the last episode of the original Star Trek series, after all."

He grinned. "I'm smiling right now," he told her.

"I know," she said, and he knew she was smiling too.

* * *

**"I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom." -Edgar Allen Poe**


End file.
